


im everything that i am because of you

by the_chaotic_lesbian



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Background Relationships, Childhood Friends, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, M/M, Magic, Storms, background ashenette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27715480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_chaotic_lesbian/pseuds/the_chaotic_lesbian
Summary: “Caspar?” Linhardt sits up, suddenly, and he has a blanket around his shoulders. When did he grab a blanket? “Are… you okay?”“I’m fine!” His voice squeaks on the last syllable, and the look that Linhardt gives him is less than amused.“Don’t lie to me, Caspar. You’re not very good at it.” Linhardt sighs, and then he pinches his forehead a little bit, the same way his father does whenever his father is upset at something. “You’re scared of thunder, huh? No big deal. Everyone’s a little bit afraid of something.”
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 3
Kudos: 62
Collections: Casphardt Minibang 2020





	im everything that i am because of you

**Author's Note:**

> it's finally time! big thanks to lev and kim, my wonderful artists! i'll link their art as soon as it's posted on twitter! 
> 
> title is from "in case you don't live forever" by ben platt

Caspar is six, and he’s meeting new people for the first time. 

Which isn’t to say that he’s never met a new person. His father has tons of guests all the time, and sometimes he’s introduced to them, but they’re not really  _ his  _ sort of people. The adults that his father spends all his time with are big, much too big for him to fight, and they don’t give Caspar the time of day. He’s lucky if they learn his name. 

Today, though, is different. Today, his father and his older brother drag him to another place in Enbarr. The building is some fancy church building, and everyone shushes him whenever he walks in. 

“Go outside and play with the others,” his father says, harshly, and then he’s walking away. He doesn’t even say where the outdoors  _ is.  _ Caspar pouts. 

His pout doesn’t last for very long, because a tall man that he vaguely remembers walks past him. There’s a boy his age trailing behind him, his head ducked and his face hidden with a giant mop of green hair. 

“Caspar,” the man says, calmly, “did your father leave you here?”    
  


“He told me to go outside,” Caspar says, with a small frown. This man knows his name… not many of his father’s guests know his name, but he does look familiar… “but I dunno where that is.” 

The man turns, and gives the little boy a hard stare. The boy sighs, and then steps forward. 

“He will show you,” the man gives a nod, and then he walks away, just like Caspar’s father had. 

Caspar watches him leave for a moment, perplexed. It doesn’t last for long. 

“Come on,” the boy mumbles, and he sounds… sleepy. Like he’s gonna fall asleep right there where he’s standing. That’s silly, though, considering it’s still morning! 

“Let’s go!” Caspar cheers, and he falls in step behind the boy as he walks - slowly,  _ so  _ slowly, Caspar is sure he could walk so much faster on his own - through the weird hallways into the courtyard. 

“So, what’s your name?” 

“Mm. Linhardt.” Linhardt gives another little sleepy sigh, and then stretches his hands over his head in a yawn, right as they step outside into the bright sunshine. “Linhardt von Hevring.” 

Von Hevring  _ sounds  _ familiar too. Caspar is, once again, absolutely positive that he  _ knows  _ this person’s family. 

“I’m Caspar. Von Bergliez!” 

“Uh huh.” 

There are other children in the courtyard; another boy their age with a shock of orange hair, some blonde kid leering in the corner, and a few others. Other children of nobles, Caspar assumes. His father is, after all, high up in the Empire. 

“Come on, Linhardt, look over there! We can play a game!” He points towards a tree. 

“Well spotted.” Linhardt makes his way over to the tree, but instead of playing a game, he just flops down into the dirt, leaning against the tree. 

“What are you doing?” Caspar stomps his foot on the ground dramatically, staring at his new friend. 

“Napping,” Linhardt yawns, “we came from Hevring, it took  _ long. _ ” 

“Oh…” Caspar’s shoulders droop. He’s gonna have to find a new playmate, isn’t he? Playing on his own isn’t quite as fun, not whenever he has the  _ option  _ of playing with others. 

“You can... play a game around me, as long as I can sleep.” And then Linhardt winces; his hair, long and messy around his shoulders, has tangled into the bark of the tree. It looks  _ painful.  _ Caspar will never have long hair, no matter how pretty it looks. 

“Are you okay?” He leaps forward, hands splayed outwards as he helps Linhardt untangle his hair from the bark. 

“Mm.” Linhardt is frowning. That’s a shame. Caspar stares at his hair, and then glances down. Something catches his eye, and he gets an idea. 

“Here!” Without thinking much about it, he pulls the thin white ribbon off of his shirt. It pops open, but it’s nothing his mother can’t fix when they go home, and Linhardt needs it more right now! 

“What are you doing?” Linhardt is still frowning, though the expression looks  _ strange  _ with his eyes as droopy and sleepy as they are. 

“Turn around!” 

Linhardt makes a face, but he twists his upper body just enough so that Caspar can clumsily tie his hair up, the way his mother does to her own. He only vaguely knows how to do it - the servants have begun to teach him how to fix up his own clothes, and that’s kind of the same thing, right? - and it’s super messy whenever he finishes, but Linhardt’s hair is now all tied up. 

“That way it won’t catch as hard!” Caspar steps back from his handiwork and smiles. He thinks he did a pretty good job! “It’s a gift! Cause we’re friends now!” 

“We are?” Linhardt gives him another weird look, and then he yawns again. “Well, I suppose you’re not the worst. Okay, sure. We’re friends.” 

“Yay!” Caspar cheers. 

“But I’m still not playing. You should go ask Ferdinand. He’s bossy.” Linhardt vaguely gestures to the orange-haired boy, who looks lonely all by himself in the corner.

“Oh. Okay!” 

Caspar does, in fact, go and ask Ferdinand. The boy brightens at the thought of someone  _ asking  _ him to play, but by the end of the day, Caspar realizes what Linhardt meant when he said that Ferdinand was bossy. He just kept insisting he was in charge all because of his dad! That’s not how that works! 

But it doesn’t matter, because Caspar’s made a  _ friend.  _

  
  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~

Caspar is ten, and he’s terrified. 

“It’s supposed to storm,” Linhardt says casually, in his bland, neutral tone of voice, and Caspar can’t help the pang of fear that sparks in his chest. 

He’s not supposed to be afraid of storms. That’s something he was supposed to grow out of a very long time ago; or, at least, that’s what his father says. After all, he’s ten years old, and what ten year old is afraid of  _ rain _ ? 

This one. 

“We should build a fort!” He announces, in an effort to hide the fact that his stomach is clenching painfully and his lungs are aching. Maybe Linhardt is wrong. Linhardt is not wrong very often, but it’s not  _ impossible,  _ right? 

“A fort?” Linhardt yawns, “why bother?” 

“Cause it’s fun! It’s like the best sleepover activity.” Caspar pouts, puffing out his bottom lip and widening his eyes. It’s mostly subconscious, but even he has noticed the way everyone around him just sighs and does what he wants whenever he pouts. It’s a nice power to have, he thinks. 

And sure enough, Linhardt sighs, and then nods. “Okay, okay, fine, Mr. Fort-Master. What do we need?” 

“Pillows! And blankets.” Caspar takes Linhardt’s hand with his, dragging him to the storage closet that he knows is right next to Linhardt’s room and is stocked head to toe with pillows and blankets. What they’re all doing here, he doesn’t know, but he doesn’t care, not whenever he finally gets to build a fort with Linhardt! 

The fort building takes  _ forever.  _ Linhardt is, after all, not very helpful. In fact, he just sits on the bed, a book in his hands, while Caspar does all the work. He’s used to it, though. Linhardt doesn’t like doing work, and Caspar doesn’t mind it so much, and if it makes Linhardt happy, he’s happy to do just about anything. That’s what best friends are for, right? 

But, eventually, it is done. He stacks pillows on top of the blankets to keep it stable, and then makes a face at Linhardt. “Come on, Lin, we gotta go  _ inside  _ the fort.” 

“But my bed is cozy,” Linhardt whines. However, he slides off the bed rather reluctantly, climbing in with Caspar. 

The fort blocks out most of the light, but Caspar has his own little stubby candle that he brings with them, as well as the plate of snacks that one of the servants had brought them. 

Thunder rumbles. 

Caspar yelps, jumping up and hitting his head on the blankets. It doesn’t hurt, obviously, but it does catch Linhardt’s attention. Linhardt has already made himself comfortable on his stomach, his book flat on the floor, but now he’s staring up at Caspar like he’s seen a ghost. 

Or maybe not. Linhardt doesn’t like ghosts. 

Lightning flickers across the room, coming from Linhardt’s giant window, and… oh, it’s raining now. So Linhardt is right; it is storming. He doesn’t like it. He’s gonna die. He’s gonna… 

“Caspar?” Linhardt sits up, suddenly, and he has a blanket around his shoulders. When did he grab a blanket? “Are… you okay?” 

“I’m fine!” His voice squeaks on the last syllable, and the look that Linhardt gives him is less than amused. 

“Don’t lie to me, Caspar. You’re not very good at it.” Linhardt sighs, and then he pinches his forehead a little bit, the same way his father does whenever his father is upset at something. “You’re scared of thunder, huh? No big deal. Everyone’s a little bit afraid of something.” 

“You’re not!” 

“You just haven’t figured it out yet.” Linhardt purses his lips, humming thoughtfully. Before Caspar can pester him about… whatever the heck  _ that  _ means, doesn’t he have the right to know what his bestest’s friend fear is? Linhardt is scuttering towards the opposite end of the fort. 

“Lin?” 

“Shhh, I’m thinking.” Linhardt flops back onto his stomach and then rolls onto his back, his nose all sorts of scrunched up now, “Anyways, I’m here, so you don’t have to be afraid. You can just…” he vaguely waves at himself, “come here.” 

Caspar scoots closer, and then jumps into his friend’s side when another clap of thunder sounds. “Thanks Lin,” he mumbles, “you should tell me what you’re ‘fraid of. So that I can fight it off for you!” 

He can’t see Linhardt’s face from his current position, all curled into his friend. But Linhardt pauses, and Caspar can just  _ picture  _ the expression on his face; eyes all scrunched up, teeth closed around his bottom lip as he thinks. 

“I don’t like ghosts much,” he finally answers, with a slight wobble of his voice that suggests he’s pouting. Most people don’t realize that Linhardt pouts, but Caspar has seen it many times, the way his friend will stick his lip out as if he’s about to cry. “And you already know how much I don’t like blood.” 

Ghosts and blood are about as hard to fight as thunder, but Caspar grits his teeth. “Then you don’t gotta worry about a thing! I’ll protect you for sure.” 

“Thanks, Caspar,” and this time there’s a smile in Linhardt’s voice, his tone all sunny and warm, “you’re a very nice friend.” 

“You bet!” 

Linhardt yawns, then, and somehow - later, he will call this his Linhardt-sense - Caspar knows that it’s bedtime. Which sucks, because this storm will probably keep him up all night the way it always does, but it’s already later than Linhardt normally stays awake, so he won’t complain. For now. 

“G’night Lin,” he says instead, and he flinches into his side as thunder cracks overhead. 

Two weeks later, there’s a parcel in his name, with a handmade charm and a little note.  _ It’ll protect you from the storms,  _ the note reads,  _ your bestest friend, Linhardt.  _

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Caspar is sixteen, and he’s desperate.

“I’m not gonna fail out of school,” he chants under his breath, over and over and over again until he’s absolutely positive that it will come true. He’s not. He’s not! Sure, he hates doing homework, and he doesn’t understand the textbook stuff that the professor keeps assigning, and he’d much rather spend his days punching and sparring than nose-deep in books, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to fail! 

And yet, here he is, speeding up the stairs - he can take them two at a time now, one right after the other - all so that he can get to the library in time. In time for what? Well, he’s still not entirely sure how the library  _ works.  _ He’s had to drag Linhardt out of it twice already, but the librarian - Thompson? Topaz? He can’t remember - had given him the most  _ dirty  _ looks. 

“I’m not gonna fail,” he repeats again, as he shoves the library door open, and it’s only due to his years-long training that he’s not winded from the run from the classroom - where the professor had pulled him aside after class to gently explain why he would need to study and pass this exam or he’d  _ fail  _ \- to upstairs where he is now. Definitely prepared to study his fucking heart out, or whatever. 

Briefly, he thinks that he should go find Linhardt. Linhardt knows how to study. Linhardt  _ likes  _ studying. It’s just that he’s an awful teacher, constantly rambling about whatever it is he’s trying to teach until he’s off-topic and in his own world, and it’s fine! It’s all good! But Caspar desperately needs to learn this, and he’d rather not admit to his best friend that he’s failing school. 

He ducks into the library as carefully as possible, which is to say, not carefully at all in the slightest but at least without the horrible fumbling he’s so prone to do. His body is growing, his muscles strengthening, and sometimes that means he’s awfully clumsy. So what? It’s normal, right? 

He’s not familiar with the library’s layout aside from the tables in the center, the shelves wrapping around the room. At first glance, it’s empty, without any rude librarian -  _ Tomas!  _ Caspar thinks,  _ that’s his name! I remember!  _ \- and he slides into the first table he finds before he hears the voices. 

“Come on Lin,” and that’s Dorothea, right? He didn’t think she ever came into the library. “I know, I know, it’s awful, but thunder magic is really the strongest magic, and I know you can do it.” 

“No thanks,” Linhardt drawls, and Caspar jumps at the sound of his voice, “thunder magic is the worst kind. The marks it leaves…” he can hear the shudder in his friend’s voice, “I don’t need it.” 

“Your loss.” And Dorothea steps out from behind the shelf that she and Linhardt had been talking behind. She doesn’t even spare Caspar a glance, just walks out of the library like she had only been there to talk to Linhardt about… thunder magic? Why would she be talking about thunder magic with Linhardt? And, on that note, if it really was the super powerful magic that Dorothea had claimed, why didn’t Linhardt learn it? 

It’s weird, and suddenly Caspar doesn’t really want to study in the library. This is Linhardt’s space, and he thinks he might just be intruding, which is a no-deal. Besides, if Linhardt sees him, he’s gonna ask why Caspar is there, and Caspar is the world’s worst liar and he absolutely cannot handle the thought of telling Linhardt that he’s failing. Not now. Not until he’s  _ not  _ failing and the disaster is avoided. 

So he stands, and backs out of the library as quickly as he can. It’s alright, he tells himself. It’s fine. He’ll just… go chase down Ashe and make him study with him. That’s what friends do, right? 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Caspar is seventeen, and he has a crush. 

It’s a horrible thing, this crush. He only started to realize it after Ashe had described his crush on Annette, the sweet girl from the Blue Lions class who was in the process of transferring over. According to Ashe, having a crush is all about the way you tingle when you think about your special someone, the way you want to spend all of your time with them, to make them happy. 

And then the conversation happened. 

The Conversation, capital letters. The one that Caspar had kept putting off after he overheard Linhardt turning down powerful magic, because while he was beyond curious about it, he didn’t want to invade his friend’s privacy. And he didn’t really know how to approach the topic, anyways, not when Linhardt would spend all his time talking about his newest crest studies and looking dreamy and content and Caspar would be a horrible friend if he ruined that, wouldn’t he? 

So he put it off, and put it off, until one day he had found Linhardt nose-deep in a book about magic, reading about the different types of the wind magic that he so obviously prefers. It was the perfect opportunity, and Caspar had inhaled, exhaled. 

“Hey Lin?” 

“Oh, hello Caspar,” and there’s something in the way that Linhardt says his name - stress on the second syllable, with a fond humor and the slightest turn of his lips - that has Caspar shiver almost every single time. “I didn’t see you there.” 

“You never see me,” Caspar had pointed out, “I have a question.” 

“Hmm?” 

“Why don’t you use thunder magic?” 

It hadn’t been what Linhardt had expected, for sure. He watched the way his friend had blinked, slowly, like one of the monastery cats. “What?” 

“Well, it’s just.” Caspar had paused, for a dramatic effect and also to gather his thoughts. “Thunder magic is strong, right? And you like strong magic! It doesn’t make any sense. Why wouldn’t you learn magic?” 

Linhardt had stared at him with a glimmer of… something in his eyes. Caspar still, to this day, can’t figure out what that look at meant. “Caspar, you don’t like thunder.” 

_ Don’t like thunder  _ is a tad bit of an understatement, considering his fear of storms still sends him flying downstairs to Linhardt’s room on the nights it wakes him up. Still, Caspar had frowned, his hands on his hips. 

“So what?” He had said, puzzled, “what do I have to do with anything?” 

“You’re my best friend,” Linhardt had said slowly, “why would I learn something that would frighten you? No, I’m not going to learn thunder magic. Now please, stop bothering me. I’ve almost got this excalibur spell down.” 

It had been bizarre then and it’s still bizarre now, although less so now that Caspar’s been confronted with the idea that he has a horrible, no good, very bad crush on his best friend, who wasn’t learning magic specifically because he didn’t want to scare him. 

I mean, what’s he supposed to do with that?  _ Awe, Linhardt, I won’t chase after ghosts so I don’t scare you.  _ Why would he be chasing ghosts in the first place?  _ Awe, Linhardt, I will go chase down Marianne for healing instead of going to you so that you don’t have to see me bloody.  _ Except he’s tried that, and while Marianne had been very nice about it, Linhardt had berated him for hours about how he had learned healing magic specifically for Caspar and why would Caspar go to someone else when he has a perfectly capable best friend right here? 

It’s confusing, and Caspar thinks about how he probably has a crush on him, and it makes it more confusing. What’s he supposed to do now? He thinks he could probably go to Dorothea and ask her, but she’d probably just make fun of him, which,  _ ouch.  _

It doesn’t matter. The dance is coming up, now that Linhardt’s birthday was only a week or so ago, and Caspar has a plan. The semblance of a plan. Barely a plan. But it’s a thought and that’s more than he usually has! So it totally counts. Here’s his plan; ask Linhardt to dance with him. 

Admittedly, that’s all he has. Which, no big deal, he’s never needed something as silly as a plan or strategy before.  _ Hey Linhardt, thanks for looking out for me in the most you of ways, will you do something you absolutely despise with me to prove that I might have romantic feelings towards you? Pretty please?  _

Ugh. He hates this. 

Still, he has to do  _ something,  _ which is why he stands outside of Linhardt’s door and knocks. 

“Hey Lin?” 

“Caspar,” Linhardt opens the door with a sleepy yawn. He’s wearing his lounge-wear and his hair is all messy, which means he was probably sleeping, and now Caspar feels guilty. “Is it a school day?” 

“No, it’s the weekend,” Caspar answers, and he frowns. “Come on, Lin, you gotta keep track of the days.” 

“Oh, I know it’s Saturday, but sometimes time, well,” Linhardt makes a vague wavey motion with his hand, stifling another yawn as soon as he finishes, “anyways. Did you need something?” 

“Go to the dance with me!” 

Linhardt does that slow blinky thing at him again, eyes narrowed, and Caspar swallows. This was a bad idea. He’s gonna get rejected. Maybe he should’ve failed out, so that way he can run back to Bergliez and forget about the time he got rejected by his bestest friend in the entire world. 

“I don’t like dancing,” Linhardt finally says, and Caspar takes another large gulp of air. 

“I know, but like, it’s a tradition! And we don’t gotta actually dance, I just don’t wanna go by myself.” He puts on his best pout, which is admittedly not as effective considering Caspar never pouts seriously, so he’s never  _ taken  _ seriously. “Come on Lin, pretty please?” 

“Ugh,” Linhardt groans, “fine, fine, I suppose. Since you asked so nicely.” 

(They dance, and it’s wonderful, and Caspar is definitely in love, at least a little bit. Aren’t most people a little bit in love with their best friends? Isn’t that normal? 

But then the war starts, and he’s swept onto the battlefield, and he doesn’t have time to think about something as silly as romance.) 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Caspar is twenty-three, and he’s in love.

What had been a fledgling crush during their school days has turned into this: a horrible, all-consuming  _ desire  _ which would be terrifying if Caspar hadn’t watched Ashe and Annette slink off together after one of Edelgard’s morale-boosting meetings, all bright-eyed and smug. It had made something inside of his chest ache, because that’s what he wants too. Someone he can wrap tightly in his very muscular arms and press against his chest and smother with kisses the way he does with Meatloaf. 

Which is to say, he wants to be with Linhardt. Romantically. Like as boyfriends. During a  _ war.  _ What a horrible idea. He wants it to stop. He wishes he could stop the thoughts that flood him every single time he watches Linhardt smile, which is admittedly less and less since the war had begun. He wants the war to be over just so that Linhardt would smile more. 

It’s horrible, this being in love thing. What’s he gonna do when the war’s over? Get a functional job? Work for Edelgard? He thinks he might want to travel, but he can’t bear the thought of leaving without Linhardt at his side. 

Plus, he thinks about this far too often. Like right now, on the battlefield, his axe in his hand. He wants to swing around and call out to Linhardt to make sure he’s okay - since the professor came back, he’s been more and more comfortable with killing on the battlefield, which is scary in a way that he can’t quite describe - but the Faerghan soldiers are far too strong and he should be focusing on fighting. He should be… he should be… 

“Caspar!” 

There are hands on his shoulders, shoving at his armor, and a cackling hiss that reminds Caspar far too much of sleepless nights buried under blankets. He jumps backwards immediately, watching the way Linhardt steps in front of him and takes a bolt of thunder straight to the chest. 

_ What the fuck???  _

_ Linhardt! _

“Linhardt!” Caspar yells, and he spins on his heel faster than should be humanly possible because that was a thunder spell, Linhardt just took a  _ thunder spell  _ for  _ him  _ when he shouldn’t be on the front lines at all and now he’s… he’s… 

Standing perfectly fine, untouched and unharmed, with a spell crackling in his hands as he sends the enemy mage flying backwards. 

“Linhardt,” Caspar breathes, and he flings himself at his friend and the object of his affections, patting him down for the tell-tale marks of thunder magic. There is none, save for a light scorch on his clothes, a few singed edges and dark stains. It’s bizarre, because Dorothea’s thunder magic has rendered most enemy soldiers unconscious if not dead, stopping their hearts completely in a way that has even Caspar shivering. 

“Why did you do that?” He demands, smacking at Linhardt’s chest even as his friend stares at him. “Why would you do that for me? What the fuck, Linhardt?” 

“Magic has nothing on me,” Linhardt says, doing that cat blink at him. Caspar is starting to realize what exactly that look means; it means he thinks that Caspar is dumb. Which, fair enough, Caspar often is dumb in comparison to the wonderfully smart and amazingly talented Linhardt. “My resistance is much higher than yours. A thank you would be nice; that blow would’ve killed you.” 

“So what, you’re gonna risk your safety for me?” Caspar shakes his head, “it’s supposed to be the other way around! I’m supposed to protect you!” 

Linhardt is still staring at him. And staring at him. It’s a little weird. “Caspar,” he says, slowly, “have you considered that I might want to protect you, too?” 

All of Caspar’s nerves shut down at the sentence.  _ Why would Linhardt want to protect me? That’s always been my job! Except… except…  _

Linhardt has always protected him in his own ways, hasn’t he? From the thunder charm, made on a whim after a sleepover. Refusing to learn magic that would scare him. Going to the dance with him even though he hates dances. Always  _ being there,  _ ready to heal him whenever he needs it, despite the fear of blood he’s only barely overcome. 

“Oh, Lin,” he says, and then he’s pressing forward in the most desperate kiss he’s ever had. 

It’s his first kiss. He can’t fathom the thought of kissing anyone that’s not Linhardt. He’s not even entirely sure why he hasn’t kissed Linhardt before this, or why he’s kissing him  _ now,  _ on the battlefield, when enemy soldiers are thundering around them like they aren’t even there. And maybe they aren’t there. Maybe Linhardt has transferred them to some alternate dimension so that they can kiss in peace. 

Not that the kiss lasts for long. His armor is heavy and probably pressing into Linhardt’s chest and Linhardt wheezes when he breathes and it’s enough to scare Caspar because what if he  _ is  _ hurt, what if something’s wrong? And so he pulls back, his arms around Linhardt’s shoulders. 

Linhardt doesn’t look hurt. He just looks… dazed and winded, his cheeks flushed red. “Caspar,” he says, and his intonation is totally off, the stressed syllable faint, “is this really the place?” 

“I can kiss you whenever I want!” Caspar declares, and then falters, because can he? He’s never… actually asked. Linhardt doesn’t even know that Caspar’s in love with him! 

Linhardt just laughs, though, and there’s a wry little smile on his face. “You certainly can,” he says, and his blush only deepens. “That’s the strangest confession I’ve ever heard, but it suits you, I believe.” 

_ Confession.  _ That was a confession. Caspar is in love with his best friend, and now Linhardt knows that Caspar is in love with his best friend, and it did not go as terribly as he had imagined, because maybe Linhardt has been in love with his best friend too. He hadn’t even considered the thought. He’s never been the smartest person. 

But he should still do things properly, so he thinks about what Ashe had said, when he was practicing his confession for Annette in front of him. “Linhardt,” he says, as seriously as he can muster, “I am in love with you. And when we’re not on the battlefield, I’m gonna kiss you again. Okay?” 

Linhardt snorts, and the sound of clashing blades has nothing on the way his little giggle sounds, “so serious. Did you practice that in the mirror?” 

“No,” Caspar answers, honestly, and then because he has never been able to lie to Linhardt, says, “Ashe practiced in front of me. He’s better at this mushy gushy romance stuff.” 

“I suppose he is.” And Linhardt shakes his head, but he’s still smiling that bright, beautiful smile that Caspar has wanted to see more than anything in the world. “Well then. Caspar, I am in love with you too. When we’re not on the battlefield, you have my permission to kiss me again. So long as I get my nap in first.” 

“Deal!” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And when the battlefield is over and they’ve made it back home, Caspar does. He kisses him again and again and again to make up for lost time, because he could’ve had this all along but he had been dumb and Linhardt, smart Linhardt, too nervous.

And when the war is over, when all is said and done, he takes Linhardt by the hand and leads him on a journey across the world.

And he’s still afraid of thunder, but Linhardt makes him a new charm - the old one had gotten old and faded, and the magic in it all worn up from the long war. When Caspar asks, rather petulantly, why Linhardt would make Caspar a thunder charm if Linhardt himself was willing to put himself in danger, and Linhardt concedes by making himself a thunder charm as well. “To keep us both safe,” he says. 

The ribbon that Linhardt had worn in his hair for as long as he could remember and then longer - Caspar’s first gift to him, the promise of a friendship that would last lifetimes - becomes too gritty to be used as a hair ribbon anymore, so Linhardt ties it around his wrist. “Who needs rings and weddings,” he had said, when Caspar had questioned it, “this here proves that I am yours and you are mine.” 

(Caspar finds a new ribbon for Linhardt to wear instead. He buys two; one he gifts on the anniversary of their confession, the other he wraps around his own wrist.) 

“No matter what happens,” he says, when Linhardt notices the ribbon for the first time, “I am yours, and you are mine. Right?” 

And Linhardt smiles. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


End file.
